My House Smells Like CATPISS!

Oh please, powers to be, let me deal!

So I love my cats, oh yes, and even my damn dawg, and I can tolerate the insurmountable globs of animal hair (thanks to Robot and his undying floor cleaning commitment) all over my house. I can deal with daily, early morning, on the dot, operation-feline-starvation-notifications, I can deal with stolen hair-ties and random “gifts” dropped on my side of the bed.

I can even deal with the dawg escaping to the basement to eat cat poop. I can tolerate picking up dawg poop in the yard. I can deal with dawg pee dead spots in my grass and shredded hostas along the back side of the house. I can deal with taking the stinky dawg to the groomer and wiping her paws off before she comes inside on a rainy day. I can deal with the dawg rolling in a splotch of dead grass (from dawg pee) and demolishing her fresh groom.

Oh yes. I can even deal with sticky tape on door frames, wall corners, furniture edges, and backs of barstools to deter feline claw-markings (leaving wonderful goo-tracks when peeled off, yes, I can even deal with that). I can deal with stepping in cat vomit and promptly calling the dawg to clean up the squished mess (she loves cat vomit, it’s one of her favorites). I can even deal with dawg vomit, of which the cats will not clean up and neither will the dawg.

I can deal with laying out puppy wee-pads for the cat that has a litter aversion, likely due to a flubbed declawing (before we rescued him, many littler experiments before we concluded what his issue was) so that he can go potty.

I can deal with flea treatments, even the ones that go wrong, ending with a cat slicing open my artery, licking the flea medication, and frothing at the mouth like Cujo and running about possessed for approximately five minutes. I can deal with the cats eating the dawg’s food, promptly booting the dawg out of the way and then promptly puking the food up (win, win, I guess, the dawg still gets her food!). I can deal with never being alone in my bed or the bathroom for the sake of ensuring that the cat is able to monitor the proper use of their bed and shower.

Ohmygawsh. I can deal with so much when it comes to loved ones, especially my furry loved ones because they’re faultless. I can deal with not being able to walk away from my plate of food without it being licked by a cat or snagged by a dawg (the dawg is getting better about this as she matures, her manners are evolving, see Auntie Piper & the Tortilla). I can deal with the dawg being scared of the lollipop-girl on a scooter, the garbage truck, the vacuum, the broom, plastic bags, the pooper scooper, and the swiffer. I can deal with rushing to shut the back or front door before an entitled feline strolls over the threshold to escape among the world of birds, rabbits, squirrels, and scary cat-haters.

I can even deal with people wrinkling their nose when I tell them I have FIVE cats.

I can deal with dawg and cat zoomies and cat explorations that result in decor on the floor and in the baby’s mouth. I can deal with the dawg chewing Blankie and when trying to poop, Blankie parts are hanging from her damn dawg butt and hubby has to help by pulling it out (but I’m not sexist! ). I can deal with finding Christmas tree tinsel in the cat poop and hanging my plants where the cats cannot eat them. I can deal with snags in my curtains because young cats assume they are for climbing… and for access to the hanging plant.

I can also deal with endless vacuuming of furniture and rugs, as well as endless washing of throw blankets (which makes for less furniture vacuuming). I can deal with endless dawg stares while I eat ANYTHING and the ghostly and creepy appearance of the old man cat whenever I handle any form of shredded cheese.

I can deal with the constant feline body forcing its way onto my computer keyboard, textbook, or notebook. Oh, and I can deal with drinking morning coffee and wearing some of it down my front as a result of a feline “pay attention to me” head bump to my mug. I can deal with having to wipe my kitchen counters before using them (because I’m not about to put sticky tape up there, too) and washing the kitchen table off before eating at it (on the rare occasion that we DO eat there).

Additionally, I can even deal with the humiliation of a late night trip to the bathroom, stooping to pet a kitty, only to discover it’s a slipper or a pile of clothes that are somewhere they shouldn’t be.

Yeah, I can deal with that, even when I flip on the light to discover the mocking stares of the lounging cats of which I thought I might be petting.

Omygawsh, shamefully, I can deal with watching a nurse (that was sent by my insurance company to assess and draw blood before I got approval for a life insurance policy) sit at my kitchen table and leave with old man cat hair on the butt of her black scrub pants (the horror, especially when you consider yourself above the standard cat owner). What’s even worse is that hubby noticed it, too, and neither one of us told her! 😱

And… I can deal with my allergies to both cats and dawgs. I can deal, I take a daily allergy tab and keep up on dusting and vacuuming. Good enough *shrugs*

Yeah, yeah, I can deal with all of this. But, if you haven’t already guessed…

…I CANNOT deal with the smell of cat piss in my home. No. Way.

Nope. Not gonna honor that stereotype. Not gonna be that stinky lady in the store or the lady that co-workers secretly unify together in being grossed out over (likely already occurring because that’s right, I have five flipping cats!). Naw.

Gonna conquer that smell and discover where it is coming from and eliminate it…

**UPDATE**

Totally discovered where the cat piss smell was coming from! In the basement, among scattered stacks of boxes, a secret, pooping and pissing field upon something fabric. Solution? Organize the scattered stacks, ensuring that there are not any hiding-holes left for old man cat to rejoice in contaminating. Also, pick up anything plastic bag or fabric like (except wee-pads).